


sing me a song

by sannlykke



Series: Sportsfest 2018 [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire Fusion, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 21:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15325260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sannlykke/pseuds/sannlykke
Summary: Aomine/Himuro fills for Sportsfest 2018.br 1 & 2: asoiaf au, domestic au





	1. winner winner chicken dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains descriptions of animal guts, if that's not your thing

Aomine stares at the ingredients laid out haphazardly on the table and wants to, perhaps, hurl himself out the open window.  
  
The wind ruffles his hair, reminding him that he’s really only got just over an hour to prepare, which is two hours less than he needed. Tatsuya would be home by five-thirty, or so he said over text, so they could ostensibly change and go out to the place Daiki had booked for their anniversary dinner.  
  
Except Aomine hadn’t actually reserved anything. He stares at the bag of carrots and thinks about how bright the orange is compared to a basketball.  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
Aomine thinks briefly about calling Kagami once he starts haphazardly chopping the carrots, squinting at his phone screen every now and then. No, fuck that. He knows what he’s doing, even if the tiny lines of English on the recipe page aren’t exactly welcoming to his eyes right now. It’s just roast chicken. Yeah. He’s seen people do this on TV before, on those shows Tatsuya sometimes puts on when they need a little background noise while doing indecent things on the couch.  
  
Which is just what he needs to concentrate, maybe. The soft jazz from their neighbors’ loudspeakers is just loud enough that he could hum to it as he manages to chop up the potatoes without stabbing anything (Satsuki would be proud.) So much so that he almost misses hearing Tatsuya’s car pull up to the driveway just as he’s starting to massage the spices into the chicken.  _Shit._  
  
“Daiki?”  
  
“I’m—” Aomine begins, just as Tatsuya walks in the door to see his forearm shoved up the chicken’s ass. “Hi.”  
  
“Oh,” Tatsuya says. His gaze lingers on the chicken and spectacular mess around it (though as these things go Aomine can’t say Tatsuya is any neater.) “I’ll assume we aren’t going anywhere tonight, then.”  
  
“I, if you, still want to,” Aomine splutters, quickly withdrawing his arm, chicken viscera and all. Tatsuya’s laugh is soft and relieving to hear as Aomine turns around, ears flaming hot, and almost bumps into the oven handle as he fumbles at it. “I just thought I’d—”  
  
“Oh, Daiki.“  
  
This, Aomine thinks, must be what the chicken is feeling right now, the heat in the back of his neck building up to a pleasant 200°C intensity as Tatsuya—damn him—circumvents the kitchen island to snake his arms around his waist. “Oi, I’ll drop this.”  
  
Tatsuya shakes his head, plucking the knife out of his hand and sets it on the counter in one fluid motion. “Maybe we should keep it away from you then, hm? Since you’ve already so kindly prepared dinner—”  
  
“Yeah,” Aomine says. He turns around, with some difficulty, maneuvering them both away from the heat of the oven. How Tatsuya could spend an entire day out and still look and smell so good is one of the universe’s greatest mysteries—Aomine reaches around and cops a feel of his ass. That’s a mystery, too. “Sorry.”  
  
“Real romantic,” Tatsuya murmurs into his chest. He’s already swaying somewhat to the music; Aomine slides the remains of what once was a head of lettuce away as he leans back against the sink, letting his hands roam around the small of Tatsuya’s back. The warm Californian breeze does little to dispel the smell of rosemary and thyme starting to fill the kitchen, and as Aomine lets Tatsuya trail kisses up his neck he starts inching his fingers towards—  
  
“That's not the hand you shoved up our dinner earlier, was it?”  
  
Oh. He licks his lips, looking down at Tatsuya's questioning expression. No murder detected, not yet.  
  
“…It can be shoved somewhere else later, if you’d like.”


	2. wild roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asoiaf au

The winds are changing; Daiki could feel it in his bones.  
  
That vanishes as soon as he steps into the garden, if for a while. Little else in the world matters when he’s encased in thorns and refusing to look eastward, and Tatsuya knows that. He sees it in his prince’s eye when they walk together down the leaf-laden path, the sparse branches of rosebushes bowing inward as if in knowing. Tatsuya says nothing and Daiki feels obligated to keep the silence, even if in the back of his mind another storm is brewing.  
  
“They say the Magician is gathering an army of mercenaries,” Tatsuya begins, when they reach the end of the path. Here, where the roses grow close to the temple, red buds are still peeking through the bushes. Beyond the stone dais stoops marble carvings—the Seven in all their beauty, but Tatsuya is looking at the Stranger with his light, face veiled and turned away from them all. “I heard—”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” Daiki interjects. He doesn’t know how to be gentle, not with words or weapons. “It’s the coward’s way, what he’s doing.”  
  
Tatsuya smiles at him then in that particular way of his, and it’s infuriating how even after two years here Daiki still can’t quite grasp the intent behind those smiles. What he does know is that the rain has started again, softer, dampening his hair. He grabs Tatsuya’s hand. “Don’t look at me like that.”  
  
“Like what, Daiki?”  
  
He’d be resembling the roses soon if he isn’t careful. Daiki turns away, ears hot, and tugs Tatsuya along as if they’re two children instead of a Kingsguard and his prince. “Come on, you’ll get wet.”  
  
Satsuki used to say his senses only awaken in times of battle, and perhaps it’s true; in any case Daiki does not anticipate Tatsuya pulling back. “That’s a first, you complaining about the rain.”  
  
A brief flash of Kagami’s angry face across his mind proves no deterrent at all; Daiki grumbles a halfhearted reply and they step inside, maneuvering themselves as to not knock the candles over in the quiet. A temple with no septons is barely a temple at all, but they cannot afford to be careless here.  
  
“This isn’t a matter that could be solved with a duel, if that was what you wanted to say.”  
  
Daiki harrumphs as they sit on the stone bench next to the altar. “Wasn’t saying that. You’d like that too though, wouldn’t you.”  
  
Tatsuya’s hair tickles Daiki’s neck as he leans on his shoulder. “Maybe I would.”  
  
For a while they sit and look at the firelight, Daiki’s fingers wandering through the soft Myrish silk of Tatsuya’s sleeve. Presently he’ll have to come to terms with the precariousness of their situation. But not yet—not when Daiki’s bringing Tatsuya’s fingers to his lips, the rustle of fabric distracting his gaze from the gods. Not when the sword at his side is still ready for anything the Seven might throw at them.  
  
In the distance he hears low thunder rumble over the city, red sandstone soon to be painted dark as the clouds roll in. Daiki thinks it’s starting to get a little cold.


	3. precious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another asoiaf au; contains allusions to ptsd
> 
> feel free to look up the words :^) the quote is from the series

**i. āegion**  
  
When he was a child he would, wide-eyed and curious, go down to the village forge with Satsuki to watch the blacksmith work. It became so much so that the blacksmith would have to shoo him away from the fires when he got too close, teetering at the edge of his chair. Satsuki had teased him then that he’d sooner marry a sword than a girl, an accusation he’d vehemently denied.  
  
It had not stopped him from picking up the family sword when he turned eight, nor stopped his family from despairing at the lack of prospective brides. He would find girls at the capital, he’d said—and Satsuki, ever so wise, had come along to make sure he wouldn’t die.  
  
“Free men make their own choices,” she’d said, and Daiki, young and stupid and seventeen, had taken it at her word.

 

 **ii. brāedion**  
  
(“My prince,“ he’d said then, in the rose garden. The gentle fountain had obscured their voices, splashing cool droplets onto his boots, and he’d grown bold, perhaps too bold. “Tatsuya. Let me be by your side.“  
  
It had been scarcely two winters since he’d come, and already things are so different. Tatsuya had bid him to stand, his hand brushing past Daiki’s hair that’s long since due for a trimming. The rings on his fingers were cool against skin, and Daiki had kissed them one by one, whether copper or gold.  
  
The white cloak around his shoulders felt powerful then.)

 

 **iii. gēlion**  
  
He’d been too young for the War of the Three Seas, for the march on the Red Keep, but the rising dust in the distance tells him it is not a new experience for the groaning earth beneath his feet.  
  
Tatsuya stands beside him, beautiful, eternal. He touches Daiki’s arm, the white silver clasp of his cloak warm beneath his hand. There is no gentle song in the wind this time, no fountain or rose garden between them, but would time turn back—  
  
The soldiers behind them call out his name, and Tatsuya’s smile is sad. “Daiki.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Daiki’s grip on his sword is strong, but stronger is the tide of war that turns towards them.  
  
He marches.

 

 **iv. āeksion**  
  
Men do not win wars with talk or wine, as much as the history books would have one believe. Nor by simple conquest of sword—too simple, a story for children, but realities are harsher on the ear.  
  
Daiki does not attend the celebratory feast; he does not watch the guests scatter across palace grounds, or listen to the low drumming across the city. He does not listen to the laughter of children long past their bedtimes.  
  
It was really not so long ago, the long ride across the village at dawn’s first light…  
  
The shifting of the bedspread brings him back to the present. Daiki crawls into the bed, listening to Tatsuya’s shallow breathing, tracing fingers across the angles of his body. He stops when he touches metal, then stills, remembering that Tatsuya never takes off his ring even when asleep.   
  
In the moonlight it is soft, golden. 

 

 **v. belmon**  
  
In his dream there are tears and Daiki does not know from where they come, knowing only Tatsuya’s arms around his waist and the fire by his side and the monotonous shift of something metallic in the background, dragging low across the stone floor.  
  
“Daiki,” Tatsuya whispers, and his voice echoes across the room of his mind. Something glistens on his cheek, but Daiki cannot move to wipe it away. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Free men make their own choices,” Daiki says, the words blooming like roses in his chest. He dips his head, remembering: the forge, the garden, the high walls. They had looked impossible to scale as a child.  
  
And even now, as Tatsuya kisses him wordlessly, endlessly, Daiki falls.


End file.
